Thursday, May 27, 2010

My little cinnamon girl is actually a Nazi sympathizer with a hard on for Irish men who shave their pubic area

"Are you gay?"

Those were the first words Kevin heard as he sat down next to us.  Kevin looked over at the bartender like he needed to wipe the poop out of his ears.

Kevin used to be fat, but now he is not. Kevin shaved off all his hair on a whim a few days ago. If you add the shaved head to the orange t-shirt that he layered under a red vest, and then stuck a pen behind Kevin's ear, you might understand why he got asked what he got asked.

Kevin looked kinda gay, but I am certain that they don't teach bartenders to scream out at patrons  potentially embarrassing  questions like, "Do you mind if we remark upon your possible sexual disposition?"  Even at the English Bar Tending Academy of Assholery (albeit they would be talking shit with an English accent and an accent makes everything you say seem cool.)

I was sitting next to SweetLeif and farting when Kevin walked into the bar.  I think my farting is somehow connected to the fact that I am shitting yellow again.

I shit yellow because my liver is melting apart like an AIDS patient on his fourth med cocktail.  If you don't know anything about AIDS, and the multiple medications they give you to control the disease, and how when mixed those multiple medications literally eat your body apart, then do yourself a favor and try not to imagine your insides liquefying into a gooey mess that leaks out of your anal cavity onto the floor into some extra heavy duty colostomy bag.

Kevin sat down without mentioning my farts and tried to wipe the shocked look off his face.  He mumbled something to me about never "dressing down at work again" and he asked me if he looked gay.

I told him "ya." But I only tell him that because he is a homophobe, and I don't want him beating the snot out of some rinky dink twink who gets the idea that Kevin could be his "sweet daddy bear."

The bartender is obnoxiously drunk, but for some reason I am the only person in the bar who realizes this.  I keep trying to tell Leif and Kevin that the bartender is really drunk but they keep telling me that she "looks normal."

I ignore their protests, because I am on "pep pills" and pep pills give me near super human powers of observation.  I stole three of the "pep pills" Leif uses as a "diet aid" right out of his car before we both walked into the bar.

Leif is a skinny bitch that has all the girls at Wal*Mart telling him how they'd love to have his "figure."  Even though Leif is as skinny as an Olson Twin he is still trying to squeeze an extra 10  pounds off his already too thin frame.  I imagine that Leif has the same conversation with himself that the Olsen Twins have every morning before they brush their teeth together in their twin sinks.

Double Fashion FAIL: The Olsen Twins

The conversation goes something like "how fat they are," and "how they could stand to miss a few meals," and then something about "how homeless people have all the real style in the world," and how it's "too bad" rich people can't spend thousands of dollars on a outfit that makes them look like they've taken heroin for two weeks and are on a comedown and now they've stopped caring about things like showers and clean clothes, or stuff that matches, and instead they have replaced all those common sense ideas with the theory that they should "from now on" only wear stuff that looks "insanely big on them."

Thinking about the Olsen Twins has gotten me irritated, or maybe it's just the pep pills that have got me revved up, but now I am pissed off at the crazy Irish man sitting across the bar from us screaming at me how he is "Irish" and he how he needs to know if "we are" and "if we are not Irish what ARE we?"

"NOT Irish."  I tell him.  By emphasizing the "not" I hoped the drunk would get the hint that I was not interested in playing any of his ethnocentric labeling games.

But the drunk did not get the hint.

Fed up with the drunken Irish guy and the obnoxious bartender  I grabbed the pitcher of beer we were drinking and followed Leif outside to the smoking patio. Kevin walked out to his car to find his drinking cigars.  Kevin "only smokes cigars when he drinks" he liked to remind us.  Like after he smoked a cigar I was going to make him count 4 Hail Mary's or something.

"I may like to touch little girls."  I tell Kevin.  "But I am not your priest."

I don't remember why the bartender began to argue with me.  I do remember she repeated a lot of the same stuff that Robert the 5 tour Vietnam Veteran had to say to me the last time I was in the bar.

I was in a mood to argue with someone.  I like getting a rise out of her Kristine the bartender.  Though whenever we debate we mostly talk over one another.

That night her arguments consisted mostly of and ad hominem attacks on my personality (that happen to be true) like "how I am too much of a coward to defend my country," and "how I never do anything with my beliefs in the real world- if you don't count yelling at people I don't like at bars and the like."

"All true."  I tell her.  And then I remind her that I never told her that I was a "good person."  Then I told her that "just by thinking that some people" (in her case military people) "have more of right to say about how things 'ought to be' could easily lead to situations like Nazi Germany."

Now, I know that whenever a liberal like myself uses the Nazi Card that we have scrapped the bottom of the barrel when it comes to making an argument.  But like I said before, the girl was obnoxiously drunk, and not listening to anything I said, and basically kept sticking her giant finger in my face and spilling Miller Hi Life on my Converse sneakers.  She was getting annoying, and I figured calling her out as a Nazi was the best way to get her to shut the fuck up and listen.

Only what she said next got me to shut up, because she basically said that Nazi Germans were "right" to follow orders and that Nazis were better people than "faggot little commies like me" where she took "faggot" to not mean gay "Cuz I mean no disrespect to you (she points to Lief and Kevin) and your faggotey friends."

You would think things would get weird then.  I mean a drunken bartender just called me a commie faggot, and then the she defended the extermination of 6 million Jews under the pretense that people who train to kill other people should be more involved in the organization of the social order.  You might think this would cause even the backwater rednecks that populate this neighborhood bar to take a step back and think.

But it did not.

In between hugging her goat-bearded, badly tattooed, Irish, ball shaving, adulterous companion, my bartender complimented me on "having the balls to be outspoken" and "for standing up for what I believe" and "for living in a country where we can take all this freedom for granted" though I am not sure what I had to do with the last part.

I do know that the squirrelly Irish man did not appreciate that I  could keep up with his woman during a debate, and how she fawned over the challenge that I presented to her in the form of my nuanced rebuttals of her patently fallacious theories.

The final pièce de résistance? Our bar tab was free.  She insisted that we owed nothing when we asked to settle our account.

My friends left her a generous tip, and I offered to pay their way at WhataBurger.  My attempts at gallantry was soon rebuffed by the automated payment system at WhataBurger where my card was impolitely declined on no less than three separate occasions.

The evening was capped off by the inhalation of several viles full of the legal plant Salvia which at the modest 5x strength  imparts to its participant nothing more than the warm feeling of  bemusement at life's inner tragedies.

Good Nite and Good Luck to ya,

Romius T.,

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